Every Morning Comes
by Flanna
Summary: Not only does Andrew have to adjust to a new life, but he has to deal with the past coming back to haunt him.
1. Part One

Title: Every Morning Comes: Part One  
  
Author: Flannery  
  
Rating: R  
  
Summary: Not only does Andrew have to adjust to a new life, but he has to deal with the past coming back to haunt him.  
  
Author's Notes: Spoilers for the ends of Buffy seasons six and seven, and I think there's a mention of a season two Angel episode. I didn't create these guys. I'm just using them, but they belong to Joss. So not profiting from this, either. Big thanks to everyone that's encouraged me! *snuggles her LJ friends*  
  
* * *  
  
The camera switched on, and Andrew's solemn face appeared. For a moment, the picture shook, as Andrew's hands were shaking, but once he set it on the bed, the image stilled.  
  
His eyes fixed forward. "I'm not scared." A shiver in Andrew's voice betrayed him. "I don't know why, but... I'm not."  
  
His pale face occupied the film for several seconds, unaccompanied by narration. He looked sullen, withdrawn. Lost. He regrouped and continued.  
  
"He's been..." Andrew's eyes shut, then reopened with new focus. "This is just going to sound crazy, I -- I know. But Warren -- " He wetted his lips. " -- he's been around recently. My Warren. I mean -- not, not *my* Warren." Eyes darkened. "He's not my Warren any longer. He's... look. I'm not crazy. And -- and I'm not dreaming or imagining stuff."  
  
A fantastical expression crossed Andrew's face. "I've seen him. It hurts to look right at him, like -- like looking at the sun -- " He paused. "No, not like that at all. It's like, like if you stare at one star for a long time, trying to watch it twinkle. And -- and your eyes start feeling strained and tired. Only with Warren, that happens after just a few seconds."  
  
"He's come to my room at night," he said, taking his time with each word in order to speak steadily. Silence descended again -- a heavy silence that even seemed to weigh on the young man in the tape. "Warren... I -- I don't think he means me any harm. 'Cause I've read a lot of ghost stories and he isn't like a, a poltergeist, or something mean. Which is strange, 'cause I'd think of all of us, Warren would've been the one hurling lamps across the room and, and killing priests..."  
  
Andrew sighed deeply. He rubbed his insomnia-darkened eyes.  
  
The final line was delivered in a quivering tone. "I think -- I think he's in pain."  
  
The screen went black.  
  
* * *  
  
It was September, and an ocean breeze blew from the West. Andrew's window opened to the East, but he slept with it open to catch what he could of the wind.   
  
Hotel rooms once held a magic for Andrew. They were symbolic of fun family vacations, an oasis of soft bed and cool air to which to return after a long day spent at a theme park or natural wonder. That wasn't to say they didn't feel magical now he was older; there was magic, sure, but it seemed a dark, sucking magic rather than pixiedust and free HBO.  
  
The Hyperion was full of empty rooms and guarded by more spells and wards than Andrew knew, and was still as black and chilling as any other lonely structure. He was sleeping in borrowed space, wrapped in alien sheets, and truly, Andrew had felt alone.  
  
Thus his guard had been up, the first nights of his stay. A week after the destruction of Sunnydale, his room had taken on a more lived-in appearance and had lost much of its foreign feel. He'd stuck some pictures on the walls, cut from magazines, and had clothes and books strewn about the room, all in a rather forced effort to make it His. Still, it remained a hotel room, and no amount of time or clutter was going to change that.  
  
Andrew awoke to the room flooded with California sunshine and an unlikely birdsong from the outside. From the moment he drifted to consciousness, he became aware of a slight heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Andrew felt anxious, nervous, excited -- he wasn't sure which, and he couldn't figure the root of the feeling. Perhaps a remnant of a dream; something important in slumber, forgotten with sunrise...  
  
That had happened every morning for three days now, and Andrew had yet to notice anything come of the feeling. Instead of blaming intuition, he now suspected it could be a side effect of the protection magics hovering in the air.  
  
"It's this insistent throb," he told Wesley, "like the mixing of Pop Rocks and 7-Up. And it won't go away, and... and I think it's getting worse."  
  
"Well, Andrew..." Wesley frowned, thinking. "This building was once inhabited by a demon that fed into and fed off of paranoia for more than half a century. It could simply be that you've tapped into something leftover after its demise. You're welcome to change rooms if you'd like."  
  
Andrew shook his head. "No. No, I -- I think I'll stay in mine." He thanked Wesley for the help -- Andrew always remembered to thank the others for their time.  
  
And Fred had suggested, "It could be some sort of residual, unconscious stress over watching a friend die." She had such a genuine smile. Andrew loved being around her, usually, but he felt uncomfortable as she continued: "Then, completely losing your home, and being forced to settle in a strange new place with a bunch of people you hardly know..."   
  
Andrew just sighed and abandoned the subject.  
  
Nobody believed him when he said he felt fine. For Andrew, stress hadn't been a problem. After tragedy upon tragedy had left his life in tatters, he felt happier and more fulfilled than ever before. He felt appreciated here, and had actual friends; it felt like Sunnydale was a lifetime away, like it was the twisted Oz reflection of his normal Kansas life.   
  
This Monday morning was unseasonably brisk. Snatching an oversized Ghostbusters sweatshirt from the floor, Andrew pulled it over his head and snuggled into the soft fabric.  
  
Further introspection would wait for another time, because breakfast called. The others would be waking in a few hours. He wanted to have all the bowls and cereal out on the counter before the kitchen swelled with starving Slayers and Scoobies. Andrew reasoned that if he made himself useful, then perhaps Angel would want to keep him around a bit longer. It just wouldn't be right to leave so quickly after finally finding his place in the world.  
  
* * *  
  
Looking back on that day, Andrew would be able to recall the most surprising details. He had a conversation with Xander about dating shows; Kennedy cut her hair short and complained about the salon prices; he fantasized briefly about kissing Fred, before putting a firm and sudden end to the thought; Dawn wore a lovely floral sundress that floated around her legs as she walked; Lorne was miffed that nobody taped CSI Miami for him. When he looked back, the day passed in a blur, with certain moments playing out in cinematic slow motion.   
  
Considering this was the night of the first visit from Warren, it was strange that unimportant conversations and the like would stand out more boldly than that event.  
  
Years after that night, Andrew recalled only what he'd committed to tape.  
  
* * *  
  
The autumn breeze was dead, effectively smothered by the heavy Los Angeles atmosphere. The window was shut and locked. Tonight, Andrew hadn't felt comfortable leaving it open. He did leave the curtains parted, for he was especially eager to catch the first rays of morning sunlight. Sunshine burnt away nightmares: the first lesson learned by a child of Sunnydale.  
  
He was surrounded by darkness -- and not the calm, comfortable kind of darkness, but an apocalyptic darkness lit dimly by a dead orange glow from the LA streets outside.  
  
He'd stared through the window, trying to find Orion's belt in the sky. Orion was lost behind the skyward-glare of obscene city lights.  
  
It was 3:15 in the morning. Andrew suddenly wasn't sleeping.  
  
In fact, he was at full consciousness, as though he'd never been asleep at all. That nagging nervousness in his gut was back and had grown to a strong, persistent thrum. Andrew felt parched for air and sucked it down like he'd been underwater.  
  
This room that'd never felt like home felt even less so, tonight. Something about the space itself was off, in a grotesque way; it was closing in on Andrew and his skin was screaming at him to leave. He rolled over in bed and tried to fall back to sleep, but his eyes refused to shut against the potential, though insubstantial, threat.  
  
Then:  
  
"Hi," said Warren.  
  
Andrew lurched inside his flesh. Terror assailed him, but also a sort of relief: he'd woken a number of times with Warren seated on the bed next to him, both before and after Warren's death.  
  
Instead of a scream, instead of panic, he shut his eyes against the apparition. He screwed them shut with all his will and tried to chant away the specter with the few incantations he recalled and one or two that he made up on the spot.   
  
"Go away," he snapped when he ran out of chants. "Just... go away!"  
  
When he opened his eyes again, Andrew was alone.  
  
His heart raced in the dark and everything was too, too warm all of a sudden and he couldn't swallow enough air.  
  
The heat, the dizziness, the aches -- It's a fever. He must be getting sick. Imagining things in his half-sleep.   
  
The heavy thumping of his heart began to distract him. He wondered if he'd expire of a heart attack, right there in the bed. Andrew pulled the blankets over his face, burying himself in the folds of the bed. "It wasn't... He wasn't really there," Andrew told himself aloud, his small voice muffled by the covers. "Calm down. Calm *down*. Calm... Calm down."  
  
That wasn't real, thought Andrew, and this time he almost believed it. The First was banished. And this apparition, he realized in reflection, was wholly unlike the First. It'd been like a negative image of Warren, like a shadow against the dark.   
  
The room was still empty when Andrew slid the blankets from his face.  
  
*Reversed shadow* was the description that came to mind. Wouldn't a reversed shadow be light? No, he answered himself: like the shadow that a shadow casts.  
  
Not wanting to close his eyes, he stared out the window at the nuclear-stained sky.  
  
Soon, exhaustion made it easier to disbelieve.  
  
The trick of a fever. The remnant of a dream.  
  
It was enough. There were several non-threatening explanations available, and that satisfied him. Still coccooned by layers of blankets, Andrew fell into sleep.  
  
He dreamed of shadows.  
  
* * * 


	2. Part Two

Title: Every Morning Comes: Part Two  
  
Author: Flannery  
  
Rating: R  
  
Summary: Not only does Andrew have to adjust to a new life, but also he has to deal with the past coming back to haunt him.  
  
Distribution: FCFM, Down with the Sickness... anyone else want it? Just let me know.  
  
Feedback: Yes! Do I have to grovel?   
  
Author's Notes: Spoilers for the end of Buffy seasons six and seven. Joss created everyone I've used here, except for mini-wheats, and no profit is being made from their abuse -- I mean use. Thanks so much to the wonderful Alice for the beta!  
  
* * *  
  
Vi absently shoveled a spoonful of mini-wheats into her mouth. She chewed, slowly, staring at a blank spot on the wall.  
  
"Hey sunshine, perk up." Andrew patted her shoulder.  
  
Still chewing cereal, she forced a closed-mouth smile.  
  
It was after ten now. Much of the hotel's residents were in bed still. It was peculiar: usually, only Angel, Buffy and Lorne snoozed the day away, while the refugees from Sunnydale rose early and devoured everything edible in their path.  
  
Vi swallowed her mini-wheats. "Had a nightmare," she said quietly. "You know, one of those that stick with you? I can't get it out of my mind."  
  
Andrew frowned. "That's not good. What was it about?"  
  
"There was this mad gunman," she replied. "And -- I ran, or tried to run, but was shot in the belly." She placed her hand on her lower stomach. "He aimed to shoot me in the face, but I turned my head. I was shot in the neck instead."  
  
Andrew wrinkled his nose and looked sympathetically at her. "Ow. That's rough, sweetie."  
  
"It seemed I bled to death for hours." She gave a deep sigh, then replaced it with a smile. "You don't have the look of the well rested either." Vi prodded her cereal with the spoon, then, distracted, turned her head to the staircase. "Hey Dawn," she said, waving a greeting with her spoon.  
  
Dawn waved and stated, "Andrew, your jumpiness is spreading to the rest of us."  
  
"I get blamed for everything," whined Andrew.  
  
Dawn ruffled his hair as she walked into the kitchen."I slept like shit," she grumbled, slumping over the countertop like a dead octopus.   
  
"Nightmare?" Asked Vi.  
  
Dawn's head, pressed against the Formica, moved in a gesture that might've been a nod. "Sucked. I watched Buffy get burnt alive." She paused thoughtfully. "There were marbles of some sort," she added.  
  
"Yick." Vi gazed into the milk of her cereal bowl. "Though I guess I prefer bad dreams to living nightmares," she mused.  
  
Andrew sighed.   
  
"You're way too quiet," Dawn told him.  
  
"Yeah. I was just thinking."  
  
Dawn gave a mock gasp. "Will wonders never cease?"  
  
Vi tossed a soggy mini-wheat at her and said to Andrew, "Enlighten us, Yoda."  
  
"I was just thinking..." Andrew forced the shadows from his mind. "That our sorrows should be drowned in Venti Frappuccinos."  
  
"Ooh." Dawn grinned, seeming to come alive. "That is a fantastic idea."  
  
Vi gave Andrew's arm a friendly squeeze. "How'd you get so smart?"  
  
"It'll be a girls' day out!" Dawn lit up excitedly.  
  
He felt he should protest in defense of his manhood, but Andrew was feeling warm over being included in their group. What came out instead was, "and we can hit up that kiosk with those cute vintage tees at the street market!"  
  
The girls exchanged a look, communicating that this was indeed a wonderful idea. Dawn said, "We should stop by the mall, too."  
  
Andrew stole one mushy mini-wheat from Vi's bowl. "We should?"  
  
"I don't want to go to the mall." Vi smacked Andrew's hand away from her food. "It'll be mad busy today."  
  
"But the shirt!" Dawn raised her eyebrows. She was attempting, it appeared, to psychically convey something to Vi.  
  
It seemed to work. "Oh, that!" She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "We blew off training the other day and went out to the mall. Dawn and I saw this great shirt at Hot Topic. That totally reminded us of you." Vi grinned at Andrew. "Had, um... Fraggles, or something equally adorkable on it. Very Andrew."  
  
Andrew giggled. "Aw. You two are the best." His insides were warm and fuzzy like an electric blanket. He'd never felt so good with his old friends. His dead friends, he corrected himself, and thought perhaps he shouldn't be thinking ill thoughts of them.   
  
He fell silent. It was taking every last fiber of him to suppress the familiar surge of guilt. Andrew forced a smile, not wanting to concern the girls. This was how he now lived.  
  
* * *  
  
"I have decided," the young man on the video stated, "that I won't be repeating how I'm not crazy anymore. It's one of those things, like, the more you repeat it? The crazier you sound. And when you think about it, if you're watching this tape, then you've probably had some Hellmouth-or-otherwise-induced craziness in your life. The more I learn about the people here, the more unbelievable their stories get..."  
  
* * *  
  
"Today was nice."  
  
He wasn't talking to anyone -- or maybe he was, but would deny it if heard by living ears -- and his voice seemed much too loud in the empty room.  
  
"I went out with Dawn and Vi." Andrew sat down on the bed and untied his shoes. "We went to Starbucks. I know we should patronize, like, Coffee Bean or some small place but Starbucks is just so close and no one can do a frosty caramel frappuccino like they do."  
  
He stopped, feeling stupid as his words bounced off the silent walls.   
  
"Um." He glanced around himself. "Warren?" The word was whispered, and Andrew was both hopeful and fearful that he'd receive an answer.  
  
But there wasn't any. Not a flicker of light, not even that nervous feeling he'd grown accustomed to. It was unreasonable to feel disappointed, but he couldn't help it.  
  
Andrew kicked his shoes off, onto the messy floor, then wriggled out of his shirt.   
  
He kept the lamp switched on that night, and didn't fall asleep until well after midnight. Just like he would've denied speaking to the stagnant air of the room, Andrew would also have denied that he'd tried to keep himself from drifting to sleep until he absolutely couldn't keep his eyes from closing.  
  
* * *  
  
What he dreamed didn't matter. Andrew was shot through with an orgasmic buzz and he writhed with the feeling in pleasure that approached agony.  
  
The second wave caused Andrew to cry out. This is what woke him.  
  
Electric fingers trailed down his hip, skating over the thin cotton of his striped pajamas. Andrew tensed up, suppressing the fear he felt, and choked out, "Hey."  
  
Warren looked up, all huge eyes rimmed in black lashes and translucent skin. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said, his voice tinged with guilt.  
  
Andrew looked down at the bunched-up blanket he'd kicked off during the night. It was warm. The window was closed. There was no breeze, just still September air hanging dead both outside and between the walls.  
  
"Is this a dream?" It felt foolish having to ask. Andrew fixed his gaze on Warren's pale hand resting on the mattress.  
  
Warren's fingers were statue-still, but seemed to be wavering against the solid reality of the bed. "Do you want it to be?" Warren asked.  
  
Andrew couldn't answer. Literally couldn't. His voice seemed trapped below his throat, his throat seemed to be vibrating inside his skin, his tongue had become fastened to the base of his mouth, his jaw refused to open and his brain refused to supply an answer to the question.  
  
He -- Warren -- sat cold and blurry toward the end of the bed, on the opposite side of the mattress. A thousand thoughts bred and split like amoebas inside Andrew's mind. He wondered if he should try banishing this apparition as he had before. He wondered if he appeared as alien and out-of-focus to Warren as Warren did to him.  
  
This specter looked different from Warren the same way a reflection differs from the reflected: it lacked humanity, a spark of life, just a cold artist's rendering of a person's form. Andrew found himself feeling very fleshy and pink next to the apparition. It made him self-conscious.  
  
"Andrew." It spoke with Warren's voice, and it quivered, a hollow shadow of human speech. Warren lifted his eyes to Andrew and stared imploringly. His eyes weren't the same eyes that'd once watched hours of Doctor Who in the basement with Andrew; they were black but shimmered like a cat's eyes, like they could see directly into Andrew's head and burn out all the wicked thoughts.  
  
This wasn't the First, Andrew was certain. This was a whole other entity.  
  
"I don't want you to be uncomfortable," the shade told him. "Are you... are you uncomfortable?"  
  
Andrew's mouth moved, but no words came out. After a moment, he choked out, "Stay."  
  
Against the mattress, the spectral hand twitched as if it would reach over and touch Andrew, but Warren clutched his hands tightly in his lap to prevent such a move. "One of the good guys now," commented Warren, conversationally, with a small smile.  
  
"Yeah," confirmed Andrew. "I've worked hard... to -- to redeem myself."  
  
Spirit eyes ate him up. "You look good."  
  
It'd been so, so long, and those words from Warren still made him feel amazing. Andrew felt his skin flush with warmth. "Thanks," he replied. A smile cracked his face. "And you look amazing, like -- like an angel, or something. Only... no wings."  
  
"Also..." Warren ran a hand over his eternally mussed hair. "No halo."  
  
Andrew snorted.  
  
Looking indignant, Warren swatted playfully at him. "An angel... honestly, Andrew, you're so..." Softness crossed his face. His gaze was suddenly deeply affectionate. "I've wanted to see you again for the longest time."  
  
"Have you?"  
  
"Did you forget my face, Andrew?"  
  
It was a peculiar question, and startled Andrew. Frowning, he shook his head. "No. No... Why would I do that?"  
  
"Because I almost forgot it," answered Warren. "But I never forgot yours."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Moonlight eyes bored into Andrew's. "I followed you here."  
  
"Yeah." His gaze dropped again to the white hands, now wringing together in Warren's lap. "I figured." Andrew stirred; he had the feeling those eyes were touching him in places they didn't belong. "I mean... how else would you wind up in LA, right?"  
  
Warren exhaled an icy, jagged breath. It made Andrew jump; he wondered if Warren had been breathing this entire time and he'd only now noticed, and why something dead and spectral would do so in the first place. It seemed a charge had gone through the air and Andrew had started feeling distinctly uneasy.  
  
"I could feel you."   
  
Andrew tightly gripped the blankets until the knuckles turned white as the skin of Warren's hand.   
  
Was he imagining it, or was Warren's face melting?  
  
"I could sense you, and I followed, all this way, through the -- the -- ether, whatever..."  
  
The voice, too, was melting, until it had become a series of mind-piercing noises that might have been words. Andrew bit the inside of his lip and tried to keep calm. Warren wouldn't hurt you, he told himself, however foolishly, and you've been through worse than a little haunting.  
  
"I love you." Those iridescent eyes hovered in the same place they'd been, but the rest of the face had gone soft at the edges. The longer he looked, the features seemed to collapse in on themselves, shift in subtle turns, and Andrew wasn't certain if it was the skin that rippled or if, perhaps, something in his mortal eyes just couldn't process that at which he stared.  
  
"Andrew -- " He blinked, rapidly, trying to clear the image before him. Warren's face was still a smudge in the dark. " -- I love -- "  
  
Warren hesitated. He might have noticed Andrew's increasing disquiet. "I should go," he said.  
  
"Will you come back?"   
  
"Nothing's going to keep me away." His smile was a smear on the watercolor mess of a face.  
  
Andrew watched the form dissipate before him until it was a cloud of boy-shaped mist. He found himself reminded of the death of the T-1000 from Terminator 2. Then, like lightning, Warren's arm shot out and grasped Andrew's knee. "You'll never be alone now," the wisp told him.  
  
"No," breathed Andrew, startled, "I -- I won't."  
  
That sounded anything but reassuring. He trembled; his knee buzzed from the contact.   
  
The collective shimmer was gone, with Warren's bright shining eyes the last to vanish. He could almost see them, still, like spots burnt onto the dark -- ghosts of a ghost.  
  
Andrew sat alone in the dark for several minutes before the bedside lamp flickered back on.  
  
* * *  
  
The previous noon, seated around a sun-dappled table outside Starbucks, he was asked, "What are your nightmares about, Andrew?"   
  
Andrew blinked across the table at Dawn. "In the worst ones," he answered, "Jonathan never died, Warren's still alive, and I got everything I'd once wanted."  
  
* * * 


End file.
